At the Watering Hole

I missed summer—I missed skin. In Austin we’re spoiled. By the time March rolls up we’re already half clothed and showing our different colors like young peacocks. I love seeing my own skin begin to tan—like there’s less between me and the sun, like we’re starting to follow the same orbit and its palm rests on my chest making it warm and dark.

I went yesterday to the pool and swam laps. I love going to the pool because that’s when we all really strut, and that’s when everyone’s looking at everyone behind the cover of books or sunglasses, or maybe behind no cover at all—bold and brash locking eyes saying, I see you.

And we watch. And we survey. And we take stock. Who could I see on top of me, and when, and where, and our minds do tricks of the imagination.

Breast stroke is best for me, and I swam 100-yard intervals, and I felt like a long scull manned by little rowers knifing through the water. I had donated blood two days earlier and I got tired quickly. The thing about exercising in the water is the more tired I get the more I feel like I’m drowning—you want to suck for air but you have to hold your lungs up tight in your chest. And that’s exercise. After four intervals I felt like I might suffocate, and so I pulled up to the edge of the pool and watched the other swimmers slosh toward me, somersault, and dart off the wall underwater.

Getting out of the pool is one of my favorite parts. I dip underwater with my fingers sprayed out on the dappled concrete, and then shoot out straight to standing. And the water carries up with me as if I’m an enormous scoop, and it flushes down off me, and I whip my hand around my bald head so the water comes off in a single sheet, and I stand and take it all in.

I headed back to my towel and what a performance it is, a calculated swing of the hips, an erect tautness stringing my muscles out—it’s unavoidable. Because everyone looks, and you want everyone to look, because it’s the pool and we’re all wearing skin and why else would you be there?

I lay down on my towel and took out The Turn of the Screw, which I was reading for class. I took turns reading and checking everyone out—us humans, gathered at the watering hole. A woman about my age came close, her towel near mine, wearing a bikini. And it was impossible not be infatuated by skin that day, and hers was like an ingredient, like a cream to be added to the frosting separating layers of cake. She lay down without drying off, and her dripping mascara made her face look long and fragile, and the droplets of water dotting her skin were one thousand miniature magnifying glasses saying, This is where to look—just here. And here. And here—

The pool closed at five and I hadn’t read much. Sunday afternoon, easy as could be—who cares. I went to the men’s locker room and rinsed off. A middle-aged Chinese man held his young son up to the shower head so he could catch water in his mouth, laughing as he said something soft to his son in Mandarin.

I used to be so stiff. I used to freeze at the thought of being naked around other people. These days it’s easy, and there’s always pride in being able to be a man among these other men, shedding clothes like we’ve been waiting all day to be free of them.

As I toweled off I saw another kid, blonde, maybe four, covering his ears. As if all this skin and hair and musk was a deafening howl, and that if he could just press the sides of his head hard enough he could seal us all out.

I reached up to a shelf to get my underwear and my shorts and my shirt and put them on. I sat down on the bench and reached under and grabbed my shoes, and looked out as I put them on. The men in the locker room were in various states of undress—some were naked as buck with cuts of white meat around their groin and butt. Some in small swatches of bathing suit, some in board shorts, some with plastic flip flops, some with their bare heels on the blue tiled floor. It felt animal. Strange—but it did. It felt primal, manly, like if us men were called upon to hunt a pack of buffalo, right now, naked, loin clothed, flip flopped, bare footed, bare up and down, we could do it. We could hunt in packs.

There’s something objective about seeing a man naked in a locker room. Sure—does he have muscles, does he look fit, could he run flat out for half a mile without sucking wind. But there’s also the way he carries himself—is he slumped and skittish, or do his shoulders reach back and his chest fill the air in front of him? Could his hands tie rope? The man speaking Mandarin to his son—would he kill game with the swift and silent tip of an arrow, or would he herd his targets with loud noises and drive them off a cliff? Would the small blonde boy pressing his ears be the first victim of a nighttime ambush by wolves, or does he survive because he knows the best places to hide?

I put on my shoes thinking about this, thinking attributes, thinking of us humans as animals and what we’d be like if we lived in 4,000 B.C. There’s something about a locker room . . . Something about it that makes my brain turn. Because we’re all stripped down, and really under all our clothes we’re just flesh and bone, and I realize how similar we all are. How the man who spoke Mandarin would protect his son just as fiercely as would the father of the blonde boy pressing his ears. How we could all be fierce if we had to, and how we have teeth for a reason, and brains that can tell us to make fists for a reason, and all of us in that locker room are just itching to be tested. And it’s on the tips of all of our tongues, and if someone were to just call out we would all spring.

Marquise and Hudson excerpt

It was six stories of dust held up by 100 years of paint. And inside, they were spraying. Marquise shot fat yellow lines at the cracked white plaster wall and said softly, Real easy baby. Easy, now. He was negotiating—he coaxed his NYC fatty into swoops and jags of bright color. It was night—cold, breath out and white and then gone. Marquise’s little brother Hudson was on watch, perched up in a deep windowsill, his knees up to his chin, watching for cops through the gaps in the boarded windows. Let me do some, Hudson said. Please. Marquise changed the fatty at the end of his spray paint can for a flat tip. No one going to respect me if you do it, he said. But you messing it up, Hudson said. He lined a chalky circle on his knee with his index finger. I can do it better. Marquise grabbed green out of his drooping black trash bag. I told you no, he said.

The whine of floorboards, prickling at the neck. Hudson shot up and stood on the sill, startled straight. The big Texas moon crowded the window and pinned Hudson’s shadow to the floor. Someone here, he whispered. At least two of them. Hudson lifted his chin and squinted down over his nose, trying to catch a glint of smiling teeth, a flash of a watch, a small burst of white sneaker in the dark. Too many columns shoring up the paper ceiling, too many corners—anyone could be anywhere.

Another whine, closer, and Hudson was down off his perch. He waded around in the thick, cold air, lifting his long heron legs and bobbing his head. Marquise spayed faster, looping up and striking down thin beams of green and blue. Come on, baby, he said. He was carving out the last letter of his alias—MARS.

Who’s there? Hudson said. Then a voice rang out clear and hollow. This our spot, it said. And three dark, hunched ghosts slid sideways out from behind the doorway at the far end of the room.

The place used to be a writing bay for the Houston Times before the Chronicle bought them up, and the upturned desks made it impossible to see the three figures’ feet. They drifted forward.

Marquise was throwing a black outline around everything, cleaning up. Hudson drew close to his brother. I don’t see you with no cans, he said. We the one’s here.

Marquise finished outlining the S and bagged his spray paint. His eyes fumbled in the dark trying to pick out shapes. He heard something metal dragging on the concrete floor, and the sound approached with the three figures. Then a flash, quick and sharp, wrapped around the aluminum barrel of a baseball bat.

Three kids, young, Hudson’s age. Eleven, maybe. Their black outlines and dark skin barely popped out of the night that had them all surrounded. Marquise’s brain worked. You gonna write with a bat? he said. You ain’t got paint.

Another glint, higher this time around one of the kids’ necks, and suddenly all three looked like baseball card silhouettes, arms draped around the bats pressing down on their shoulders. Naw, the one in front said. But you do.

It was too quick—a cry of wind being ripped through then a shout clawing up through Hudson’s throat. The bat had come down on his thin left leg and busted it clean. Hudson fell sideways into his brother, who held him up, and Marquise swung his bag of metal canisters around his head once like a primitive slingshot and brought it around to meet the kid on the left’s face. The black plastic bag tore open and canisters and paint tips spewed into the still air looking like Christmas tinsel.

The kid in front laughed. Watch the paint, he said. We trying to write tonight. Marquise squeezed the empty black plastic bag . . . To be (maybe) continued~~

That last post—it had some promise before I came back at 3 am and hacked away at it like a tired butcher. But for now, it’s enough. I’ll look at it in the morning. Hope it’s better than I think it is.

But the important thing is—I wrote. My promise to myself, my 30-day challenge, these are the sort of nights that make or break you. Come back at 3 am, want to pass out, want to curl up—but no, you write. And it’s no good. And you still get something out. And you still get your thousand words. And you’re doing it.

Intimacy

Around corners, everyone is fucking. There is sucking in the room above my head, and in the bathroom stall quiet kisses leak away. I think there is an worldwide radio station—90.1 FUCKFM, say—where everyone learns about places for, and who is interested in, fucking. Except I am tuned into 99.9 LAMEFM. I am Cold Showers in the Morning with DJ Lucas. I am your humble radio host.

My dear friend and I share with each other our sexual exploits. Last night I was talking to her on the phone and she was sharing with me a story that happened a few nights ago, where she straightforwardly asked a very attractive guitarist if he wanted to go home with her. And they did.

And I’m back on LAMEFM and I wonder, How am I not a part of this? And how am I missing out? What does everyone in the world know that I don’t?

Even now my brain turns, working through my life and wondering about myself. Count them: I have had sex with six women in a span of five years—about one sexual partner per year. Okay. My friend is going on eight per year—and damn. And I think about this.

It’s not the number I have a problem with—because it’s not a conquest. I am not interested in conquest. If you ever find yourself at an impasse and the solution you come up with is, Sleep with more people, then the question is wrong, or the answer is wrong, or both—but nothing is ever solved by sleeping with more people.

No, I’m interested in intimacy. I’m interested in real connection. I’m interested in being with a woman and being acutely and fully aware of what is happening in that moment, right then—intense and sensual and good.

My friend goes to a small liberal arts college, where people sprout up through the grass and say hi to each other. I go to Stanford, where life is bleached down. Where’s the funk? And where are the outlaws? And where are the tattooed women and the writers and the artists and the people with space in their mind for looking up at the night sky and wondering—Does the moon look bigger here? And how close is the sky? 

Nope, not here. At least—these people are rare and take time to find, just as rare things do. Here’s how it happens—in Austin you meet a woman with her dog at the park and strike up a conversation because you both like Rottweilers. That woman mentions an art show she’s going to that night and invites you. You go, have a wonderful night of paintings and sculpture and wine, then tag along to a party she’s going to. At the party you meet ten new people who are your people. Doesn’t matter what happens the rest of the night—you could go home and pass out no problem. Thing is, you’ve got a dozen new friends and a wonderful night in your back pocket and wasn’t that easy? And wasn’t that nice?

In Austin, this happens. In Portland, too, and New Orleans and New York City—all the places I’ve spent time in have that sizzle of possibility hovering around my ears at all times. The buzz of spontaneity wraps around every moment like a cat around ankles.

Here at Stanford, it’s grey. There’s no buzz. Most people here are on their track and have no interest in looking up to check for full moons, or running their hands through the wheat grass outside Arrillaga Dining, or whistling back at the birds (am I the only one who does this?). And God, it’s stifling. And God, it’s enough to make a man doubt himself.

See, in Austin or Portland or wherever—you know, places where the whole mainstream, sterile thing is the minority and not the majority—there are women who are attracted to me. Physically, sure, but intellectually and emotionally attracted, too. Here—are you kidding? My kind doesn’t fly here. No one’s interested in bald men. No one’s interested in a man with an earring, who writes fiction, who likes watching good movies and also shitty movies, who likes reading books before bed because he likes reading books and not because he has assigned reading. No one’s interested in a man who’d rather paint houses and write novels than write code for a startup company. And that’s it. And that’s the truth. And really—that’s it.

The problem—it’s spring quarter of senior year. Time to check out. Time for the next big ride. Because I have started discovering some good, honest, fun, artistic people lately. They do exist. They’re just so rare, so hard to find, it’s taken me four years to do it, and now I’m so tired and so ready to go that I think—What’s the use? And it’s a shame. Because I really have met some great people the last couple weeks. But we all feel it—our lives are about to twist away from each other and we’ll probably never meet again. And it fills me with sadness, and it fills me with regret, and why the hell hadn’t I found these people earlier?

The nice realization is that there hasn’t been some terrible flaw in my character that was keeping me from making connections with people. Not that I ever believed that—it’s just, after four years of searching for friendships and connections in the wrong places and having no luck, I started to wonder about myself. But no more.

And this isn’t about sex, either. When my friend told me about her sexual exploits the other night I felt weird. I thought I was jealous because I wasn’t going out to parties and hooking up with women and enjoying being single. And I thought I felt bad about myself because I was completely behind on the numbers game. But it’s neither of those things. Now don’t get me wrong—I want sex. But more than that, I want intimacy. And I also don’t want a committed relationship. And that’s what wavelength I’m on. And I know there are a lot of women on that same wavelength—just most of them don’t go to Stanford.

Intimacy is the thing. Slick backs. A fistful of sheets. Reaching out and grabbing a hand, an anchor. Out of breath because it means something and you’re in it. That’s what I want. And more than that—connection. Friendships that mean something, people that mean something. People tuned to my radio station. You’re out there, and I’m coming for you, and it will be like a happy reunion with a person you could swear you’ve always known.

Who’s Nuclear?

We read an article in my feminist and queer theory class that used the phrase “designer baby” and I imagined a white butter whip of a baby with a D&G medallion hanging from his creamy neck. And sunglasses, ones that would shade his entire face.

This is not what the author meant.

The author meant babies with good and then better and then best genes. Rich people now can shop for good sperm and good eggs. It’s kind of like the film Gattaca, except it’s very real for those with money. You can poke around online and look at your donor’s profiles. Take Ryan: a blonde, well-built, handsome, Ivy League graduate, with no history of genetic disease and strong cheekbones. Now pair his sperm with the egg of a young brunette woman just out of college—Rachel, let’s say—and Rachel is an up-and-coming artist who needed the $20,000 for studio space and art time, who is quirky and has a hawk’s eyesight, who is dextrous and can play Chopin, and who comes from good, Polish stock. Now take that egg and that sperm and put it in the womb of a woman we’ll call Lucille, who lives on the East side of I-35 and takes the bus to her job at the Vick’s Vapor Rub canning plant. Her perfume can never quite cover the menthol that wraps her skin.

Nine months later Lucille gives birth to a baby boy at Seton medical center and Lucille never sees the kid, just goes back to her job canning Vick’s, and a family is made happy. Did I mention the parents? Barbara, early forties, lawyer, with a big mouth and small teeth and sterile since forever. Then Bob, with nervous fingers and a job writing scripts for iPhone games about high school drama.

The kid they name Rigel, God knows why. It’s the name of a star and it’s kind of like Rachel and kind of like Ryan but not too like them, because Rigel’s their own, of course. And Rigel has five parents. And Rigel is a designer baby.

So that’s the question—who are Rigel’s parents? Certainly his biological parents are Rachel and Ryan, though maybe we should add Lucille to the mix because she did give birth, after all. Or was she just a glorified test tube? Just a warm womb with blood and nourishment. A pre-babysitter? Well, 2 1/2 parents let’s say.

Then Barbara and Bob are Rigel’s adopted parents, of course. But are they really? They’ve known about Rigel before Rachel and Ryan ever did. And maybe, probably, Rachel and Ryan never knew about Rigel.

So who the hell are this kid’s parents? If this class has taught me anything it’s that—it’s complicated. I have this image in my head of a silhouette dad and a silhouette mom and a silhouette kid with a baseball cap and they are called the Nuclear Family. Father, Mother, child—that’s close, that’s nuclear. Like a nucleus. Tight, compact, made of just a few discernible parts. But who’s family is like that anymore?

My mom died when I was 12, and my dad partnered with another woman when I was 14. Now, 22, I’ve almost spent half my life with this new woman with whom I am very close, and whom I would even call a second mother. So who’s my mother? What happens when I turn 25, and I’ve spent more time being raised by my stepmom than my real, biological mom? Is she my mom? What about when I’m 40, when my biological mom is nothing but a long faded memory—when she’s from a different life altogether?

The point is—nuclear families are rare these days. Divorced parents, adopted parents, two fathers, two mothers, designer babies, international adoption (paging Angelina and Brad)—who’s nuclear? And does my image of the silhouette family even make sense anymore? I have three parents, some have four, some have more than that.

And wouldn’t it be weird if a guy’s sperm ever became a commodity? Take our buddy Brad Pitt—everyone wants to have Brad’s baby. I know this because I have heard many women say, “I want to have his baby.” What if his sperm was available for purchase? There would be a lot of Brad babies, and there would be half-siblings spread throughout the globe—and then who’s family?

And then who’s nuclear?

30-Day Challenge

I’m nervous. Today is the first day of my self-imposed 30-day challenge. I’m going to write 1,000 words per day, five days a week, for a month.

I’ve done it before. I’ve done more, actually, during the National Novel Writing Month two Novembers ago. Then, I wrote 1,111 words seven days a week for six weeks. So it’s not unreasonable.

Thing is—I’m nervous. Why? There’s a lot behind this. I wrote before about taking my shot. I’m doing it. I’ve decided to hell with those copywriting jobs—I’m going to focus all my energy on my writing and take a real shot at it, and if I have to wait tables or bartend or work a ski lift, that’s what I’m going to do.

What’s scary is I’m putting my writing on the line. I’ve been sitting in a paddle boat with my feed in the water, butted up against the shore. Finally I’m picking my feet up, rolling back—I’m in the boat. And off it goes.

That’s what it is—there’s no one forcing me to do this. There’s no assignment. It’s just me making a deal with myself and a deal with the page, saying, Here’s where my writing begins in earnest. Here’s where the urgency begins. Because the sooner I can get good enough and put out enough work to make a living, the sooner I’m not a waiter.

Damn. How’s that for motivation?

I don’t know what I’ll write about. I liked “Vials of Juliet”—that was great fun to write, it’s nice and tight, and I think I’d do well to have more short shorts like that. Build myself up to bigger things.

It’s just scary. Only me and the page now. Nothing outside of that. It’s a new intimacy. A new kind of closeness. And damn it’s quiet here.

A quick thought:

There’s no way in hell I’m wasting this life.

In my What The Hell Do I Do When I Graduate class (Thinking Like a Working Writer), we’ve had a handful of people come in and talk about their jobs. Electronic Arts, The Wall Street Journal, Google, the non-profit flavor of the day. And I got to thinking—I refuse.

Graduation—I’m six weeks out. Everyone around me is flipped. What am I going to do? Will Facebook hire me? I’ll work for two years to pad my resumé then I’ll really start living.

And to me that’s no way to live. And to me it sounds like poison. And I refuse to do it.

The more I heard about writing filler articles for The Wall Street Journal, writing copy for startups, padding and waiting and curbing, the more I think—don’t you get it? We have One Shot at this thing called life. Only one. And am I going to wake up when I’m eighty and say, I’ve had a decent run, it’s been a pretty good life, or am I going to say with deep laugh lines in my face and roughed-up hands and a gimp leg—What a rush. 


I don’t know what I’m going to do when I graduate. But if that means waiting tables, Fine! If that means working on a farm, Good! The one thing I refuse to compromise is my writing time. Because that’s my thing, that’s what makes me happy, and I want to be an author, and I want to make a living off my writing, and all else is waste.

Vials of Juliet

When Eliza and Danny Whitlock first took their own lives they were giddy. Danny said with a smile, I’m nervous, and Eliza told him, Don’t be so soft. And they tangled their arms like they’d seen older kids do, but instead of saying bottoms up and drinking alcohol they said bottums up and each child drank a small clear vial of Juliet.

One minute later they took their first breaths and their hearts spontaneously thumped, singular and hard, like an underwater detonation. Their sleeping muscles kneaded blood back through their dried veins, and when their eyes fluttered open they looked at each other. Still nervous? said Eliza. Danny said, I don’t remember anything. Eliza said, Me too, except everything was purple. Like closing your eyes and opening them up again, Danny said. They both sat up and Eliza guided her black course hair over her right shoulder and sat stroking it, and Danny tugged on his shirt which ate at his small chest. I don’t think I would want to do that forever, Danny said. You’re such a weenie, Eliza said, but she was looking down at her hair. Maybe, said Danny, but I still wouldn’t want to do it.

It became ritual, this brother and sister, in the hours before afternoon service every Sunday, their parents busy drinking the mimosas they’d let sit out overnight, marinating. Juliet was not hard for the children to get. It was expensive, but they piled their allowances for a taste of the clear liquid vials, for a taste of the dark coolness of death and then the sudden explosion of the heart, and the warm blood creeping back like roots reaching through dirt. The blood seeping back, Eliza said once. That part makes my toes curl.

On Easter Uncle Bob came from out of town with his wife, Beatrice, and his son, Kurt. Kurt was ten—one year younger than Danny and two years less than Eliza—and he wore a blue clip-on tie decorated with dyed eggs wrapped under the collar of a thin, white, short-sleeved dress shirt from the boys section.

In the play room Eliza said, We’ll all take half—you won’t be out ten seconds. It’s purple, Danny said. Kind of like sleeping but not exactly. The vial was big compared to Kurt’s hand, the exact size of the stretch between the base of his palm and the end of his middle finger. I don’t want to, Kurt said. We’ll get in trouble. No one’s gonna know, said Eliza. They’re partying, don’t be so soft. Kurt looked to Danny and Danny nodded, though he wasn’t sure why, and so Kurt watched as Eliza and Danny did the familiar dance of arms and said bottoms up and brought the vials to their lips. Eliza slid a glance at Kurt, who was obligated to put the half-vial of Juliet to his mouth. Eliza said, Tastes sweet, too, and then they were out.

Sound seeped warm into Kurt’s ears like melted chocolate. His eyes flitted open. After a moment his vision faded in and he saw Danny and Eliza were already sitting. Eliza was grinning down at Kurt, and Danny was turned away searching the blank wall and tugging at his shirt. Told you, Eliza said. Like butter cream.

Kurt lay on his side, didn’t get up. He said weakly into the carpet, I don’t get it. He rolled up his legs into his gut and pressed his clip-on Easter tie to his eyes. He cried, quiet and bald. I hate it, he said. Yeah, Eliza said, but now you know.

Mr. Whitlock called from the kitchen, Ready for takeoff! and Eliza jumped up. Alone, Danny said to Kurt, It gets easier. Kurt said, It felt like dying. That’s because it was dying, Danny said. Kurt’s small soft face twisted up like it was trying to catch an idea. But I don’t get it, Kurt said. It was nothing. Danny said, I hate it too. And then they left for afternoon service.

The next time was at Danny’s twelfth birthday party. Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock rented a bouncy castle, which Danny and his friends were just barely young enough to still enjoy. It was a family affair—each kid came wrapped with two parents, all of whom joined Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock for cool screwdrivers. It was hot out, bathing suits ran around attached to kids and bundled down the Slip ‘N Slide. At one point Mr. Whitlock, who because of his job at NASA was always stuck in aero speak, hoisted Danny from the armpits, threw him up into the bouncy castle, and shouted, Liftoff! As Danny flew through the air laughing he thought how neat it would be to build rockets like his dad.

Later all the kids gathered in Danny’s room and taped a note to the door that read, Boys Only, to which all the parents chuckled. Eliza was in there, too, but when one of the boys protested she slid him a look that said, Oh no you don’t. Eliza had made Danny spend all the birthday money his grandparents sent on vials of Juliet.

Kurt was there in big Hawaiian trunks with palm trees that swallowed his rear. I’ll watch, said Kurt. Eliza was lifting vials from a small brown bag. Fine, she said. No one’s forcing you. Sissy, someone said.

The boys talked. I heard it was purple, someone said looking at Danny. Danny nodded, staring into the opposite wall. Tommy Meyer got grounded for a whole year, someone else offered. Like he’d leave his room anyway, said another boy. Eliza passed vials around—ten clear wraps of glass in all. She emptied Kurt’s vial into her own. Good, Kurt said.

Danny was still staring into the wall. I don’t want to anymore, he said, and poured his share of Juliet in Eliza’s vial. Eliza grabbed the boy next to her, Jimmy Studebaker, and wrapped her arm around his. Jimmy’s eyes jumped out of his head and he smiled right into Eliza’s chest. Jimmy had never touched a girl before—not like this. Eliza said, Bottoms up, and Jimmy would have said anything to her so he said, Bottoms up, and Danny said—Don’t. Eliza looked Danny firm in the face. Well I’m trying to be prepared, she said, and then she and Jimmy were gone.

Kurt got up and left the room. Danny had never watched someone turn off. It was like the taut strings that hold a person up were suddenly and permanently cut. Danny could almost hear a sound, deep and dark like the bottom chords of a piano, punctuate the moment his sister slumped over.

Jimmy Studebaker came to sixty seconds later with an erection. He looked all around and when his vision finally faded in he stared at Eliza. The boys stared at Jimmy. Jimmy couldn’t stop smiling, looking down at the girl who entangled her arms with him. What was it like? one boy asked. Jimmy stared and stared. Who cares, he said—did you see her grab me? After a while another boy said, Man she took a lot.

The door opened and there was Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock, screwdrivers in hand, with Kurt hiding behind Mrs. Whitlock’s yellow summer dress peeking in. Mr. Whitlock looked down at Eliza and said, How many? And Danny said, Three. Mine and Kurt’s. Mr. Whitlock handed his drink to his wife and picked up his wasted daughter and carried her into the master bedroom. Danny heard him through the walls talking to his mother. Mr. Whitlock sighed and said, Houston, we have a problem.

Kurt was still drippy from the Slip ‘N Slide, his curly black hair stuck to his forehead like electrician’s tape. Jimmy Studebaker’s eyes drifted dreamily onto Danny. Your sister has a thing for me, he said. This is stupid, Danny said, and he grabbed his young cousin’s hand and he and Kurt left the whole thing.

You guys saw, Jimmy said, turning back to the group. She wanted it. The kids were entrenched in leftover hose water, circled on the floor around the empty brown paper sack. No man, someone said, pouring out his vial of Juliet on the dry bag, you didn’t see her. She was really out.

Jesmyn Ward

Tonight I went to a reading by Jesmyn Ward. She read from her book, Salvage The Bones, and then is when I realized I need to step my game up. I need to take my writing to the next level.

Her writing was so tight. And so imaginative. Listening to her similes was like having someone turn my brain 90 degrees. Yeah, it all still worked the same way—but damn if the world didn’t look different.

None of the writing is lazy. Each sentence has urgency and heat and energy. There isn’t a wasted moment—there were no throwaway lines.

It was encouraging, though. Encouraging because I thought to myself—this is amazing, and I don’t know if I could do that right now, right this second—but maybe, actually, I could. I think I actually could see the world at my own version of 90 degrees. She saw everything fresh. Fresh, fresh, everything was like it was being described for the first time.

And what a breath of clean oxygen, and what an inspiration, and what talent, and damn I need to buy that book like yesterday.

In retrospect, I feel bad for Spencer the Animal. I did not feel bad at the time. At the time I wanted to break him and make him understand that you can’t smash and tear things and scream hurtful insults and ask women if you can fuck them.

But now I feel bad for him, because he’s a senior and he’s about to graduate and he’s an alcoholic, and here at Stanford you get chance after chance, but in the real world you get put in jail and you abuse your wife and your children and your life is a Waste.

I do not want Spencer’s life to be a Waste. Tonight, for Spencer the Animal, I’ll pray.